CHAPTER 13 COFFEE BEFORE OPENING
October settled over Honeysuckle in gold leaves and cool mornings.
Clara developed a routine she had not planned.
At six-thirty she came downstairs from the apartment, turned on the reading-room lamps, started coffee, and opened the blinds. At seven, she answered online orders. At eight, she walked next door for breakfast she pretended not to need. At nine, the shop opened.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Eli appeared before eight with coffee from Maggie’s even though the Book Nook now owned a functioning machine.
“You know I can make coffee,” Clara told him one Thursday.
“I know.”
“Then why bring it?”
“Yours is terrible.”
She stared at him.
“It is not terrible.”
“It is efficient.”
“That is not an insult.”
“In coffee, it is.”
He sat on the bench beneath the window.
They had been dating for three weeks.
Dating was an unexpectedly formal word for two people who knew each other’s childhood addresses and deepest regrets.
They went to dinner.
They walked after closing.
They attended church together twice, though Clara insisted on sitting with Maggie the first Sunday because arriving beside Eli felt like issuing a public announcement.
The town issued one anyway.
Mrs. Garland asked Clara on Monday whether she and Eli had discussed Christmas.
Clara nearly dropped a stack of mysteries.
This morning, however, the shop was quiet.
Eli handed her a cup.
“Cream, no sugar.”
“You remember.”
“I remember most things about you.”
“That remains unnerving.”
He smiled.
Clara sat beside him.
“How is the Hawthorne situation?” he asked.
“They withdrew from the hardware property.”
“I heard.”
“Mrs. Garland refused too.”
“I heard that.”
“Of course you did.”
“They may come back someday.”
“I know.”
Clara sipped coffee.
“I’m not afraid of that anymore.”
“No?”
“No. The shop has to work because it works, not because nobody ever offers me money for it.”
“That sounds like a business owner.”
“I am becoming alarmingly responsible.”
“You always were.”
“Responsible people do not quit stable jobs to run independent bookstores.”
Eli turned toward her.
“You quit?”
Clara smiled.
“Yesterday.”
He stared.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“What happened?”
“Marianne offered me contract editing instead. Fifteen hours a week, remote. Enough income to make the transition less reckless.”
Eli grinned.
Clara had not seen that expression often. It changed his whole face.
“You’re staying.”
“I own a bookstore.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
She looked at him.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m staying in Honeysuckle.”
He set down his coffee.
Clara felt suddenly nervous.
“Say something.”
“I’m trying not to make your decision about me.”
She laughed.
“You may be happy.”
“I am.”
“Very?”
“Very.”
He kissed her forehead.
The gesture was so tender that Clara’s throat tightened.
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“I was afraid to tell you before I resigned.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want your reaction to become part of the decision.”
“Good.”
“That is annoyingly healthy.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
They sat until eight-fifteen.
Then Eli stood.
“I have to go.”
“Farmhouse?”
“Cabinets.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“Your place?”
“The apartment is my place.”
“I know.”
“You still sound surprised.”
“I remember when it was filled with boxes and one dead Christmas tree June refused to throw away until February.”
Clara laughed.
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
After he left, Clara opened the shop.
At ten, a young woman named Beth came in asking whether Clara needed help.
“Employment help?”
“Yes. I worked at the college bookstore before moving back.”
Clara interviewed her at the reading-room table.
By noon, she had hired her for twenty-five hours a week.
At one, Clara called the distributor and expanded the children’s order.
At two, she scheduled a local-author night.
At three, she approved a new website design.
At four, she realized she had worked ten hours and had not once wondered what was happening at her former office.
At six, she closed the register.
The numbers were not spectacular.
They were improving.
That mattered more.
At seven, Eli knocked on the apartment door carrying groceries.
“I said dinner, not catering.”
“You own one skillet.”
“I own two.”
“One is six inches wide.”
“It counts.”
He cooked chicken, potatoes, and green beans while Clara sat at the counter editing a client document.
“This is domestic,” she said.
“Terrifying?”
“A little.”
He looked at her.
She smiled.
“But not bad.”
They ate at the small table beneath the dormer window.
Afterward, Eli washed dishes despite Clara’s protests.
“You cooked.”
“You worked.”
“You also worked.”
“We could argue until midnight.”
“We’re very talented at it.”
He handed her a towel.
They dried dishes together.
Ordinary things.
The phrase returned from the summer they were twenty-two.
Clara had once feared ordinary life because she mistook it for a life without possibility.
Now she understood that ordinary moments could contain the very things she had been searching for elsewhere: peace, purpose, companionship, room to breathe.
When the dishes were done, they sat by the window.
Eli took her hand.
“Can I ask you something?”
“That phrase has a poor history.”
“Do you regret leaving?”
Clara considered.
“Yes and no.”
He waited.
“I regret how I left. I regret hurting you. I regret missing years with June. But I don’t regret learning that I could build a life somewhere else.”
Eli nodded.
“If I had stayed then, I might have blamed you for every road I didn’t take.”
“I worried about that.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We were twenty-three. We thought love meant having answers.”
Clara squeezed his hand.
“And now?”
“Now I think love means telling the truth while you’re still finding them.”
She looked at him.
“I can work with that.”
He smiled.
Downstairs, the shop settled into nighttime silence.
Tomorrow morning they would drink coffee before opening again.
Clara liked the thought.
Not because it was guaranteed.
Because it was chosen.